


Brutal Darkness (Disordered and Dripping)

by impertinences



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Bats is a plaything, Bondage, Cuckolding, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, F/M, Headcanon, Oral Sex, Post-Film Setting, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Voyeurism, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinences/pseuds/impertinences
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His laugh is rabid. Harley’s not stupid, she knows - it’s not a cure he wants, not really. </p><p>He wants a game. A joke. A punchline. </p><p>[Or how the Joker and Harley Quinn trap the Bat.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brutal Darkness (Disordered and Dripping)

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would have to research the mechanics of the Batsuit. Apparently, you need to when you’re trying to write somewhat realistic sex scenes with a man who wears rubber over his entire body (although sources say it’s Kevlar – triple-weave – but c’mon). I still can’t figure out how you whip out a penis without taking the entire suit off, so pay attention to where I gloss over that detail. 
> 
> IDK where this came from. My brain is a smutty place. I did not, however, make up Martha Wayne’s blonde hair – at least _Batman Begins_ supports me (I double checked).

for i think of you, flung down brutal darkness …  
i think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.  
and myself, rising red from that embrace.  
\- Conrad Aiken 

 

Harley sees him standing in the rain. 

It’s dark (night time has always belonged to winged things and the ones with fangs), and he’s alone, a gargoyle on an adjacent rooftop. She remembers when he used to have a bird-boy with him, but she solved that problem long before she was in Belle Reve – a savage act that proved her capability and daring. Now, the Bats is a solitary figure weathering a storm. Even from a good distance away, she can make out his tell-tale profile: the wind whipping his cape, the sharp contours of his cowl, the serious, grim expression on the little of his face that is exposed. 

Because he’s watching, Harley swings her mallet and busts another headlight off of a souped up Camaro. The broken glass crunches beneath her boots. She pushes her wet hair away from her eyes and looks back to the roof. 

She’s disappointed him again, she can tell. 

Good, a part of her ravaged brain thinks. She’s had her fill of living up to everyone’s expectations. She’s rotten now, and she has the tattoo to prove it. 

She blows him a wet kiss anyway, her mouth smacking her fingertips loudly. With a whistle on her tongue, she slings her mallet over her shoulders, and ducks into the alleyway’s darkness. She can’t be sure with her back turned, but she thinks he watches her prowl the entire way home. 

 

\--

 

“He’s like a shadow or a devil,” Harley tells the Joker after she’s washed the city’s grime off of her body. “Always lurkin’.”

The Joker looks tired. It’s a rare state. He doesn’t sleep – she can’t remember the last time he’s used the big bed he’s laid out on for actual rest – but he has a ghostlier pallor than usual and raccoon rings under his eyes. Usually, his mania keeps him alert and wide-eyed; it’s the voices and the demons that don’t give him a minute of peace. She can sympathize with the nonsensical ringing between the ears, but these days she sleeps like a baby. She doesn’t dream anymore, hasn’t dreamed since she stopped wearing her doctor’s coat, and the nightmares have become lullabies. 

She’s naked and still damp from her shower. She tucks herself between giant feathery pillows and beneath the downy comforter, not minding that the Joker hasn’t rolled his sinewy body closer to her, hasn’t adjusted his sharp bones to give her room, or even opened his eyes to acknowledge her words. Instead, he clenches his jaw, like the rustle of her body on the mattress has aggravated him. 

She’s almost asleep when he begins to talk, his voice honey sweet and low, only rough and rusty at the end. “What do you think a man like that wants, Harrley-girrrl?”

“Word on the street, baby, is that the devil’s lookin’ pretty lonely these days.”

He opens an eye and rolls it in her direction. “And how do you cure a devil’s loneliness, Doc?” 

Harley thinks. She props herself up on an elbow, her full breasts barely concealed by the soft comforter, watching him watching her. His chest rises and falls slowly, but she can feel the hysterical energy bubbling beneath his skin; it runs in his blood, churning in his veins, splitting his ribs. It makes her grin, catlike, and dangerous. “Don’tcha know, puddin’?”

He shakes his head, slow as molasses.

“You gotta use the same thing that cures any man: love.”

His laugh is rabid. She’s not stupid, she knows - it’s not a cure he wants, not really. 

He wants a game. A joke. A punchline.  


But Harley likes the tone of his laugh even without knowing what exactly it promises. She crawls forward, slow and feline, her back bowed and fingernails scratching the comforter. Leisurely, she purrs and bends, nuzzles into his thigh, mouthing the outline of his cock through the fabric of his pants. He’s tired, sure, but not too tired for this, and she’s always loved taking care of him.  


The Joker smirks down at her, arms folded casually behind his head, all the smooth, open expanse of his naked chest blindingly white in comparison to the dark sweatpants clinging to his hips. He smells like chemicals and acid and tobacco. He tastes like it too; she confirms as much when she takes him deep into her throat. There's a gag and a burn and the rush of hot tears in her eyes. She blinks them away and steadies her intent by fisting the base of his cock.   


He grunts, guttural, but yanks at a handful of her damp hair. "No hands, Harley-girl. Show daddy your tricks."  


He both hears and feels her giggle – it would be sweet, if it weren’t so perverse. The hum of sound from her throat sends electric-shock-shivers down his spine, but he watches over the pleasure. He has to twist her hair into his spidery fingers and pull a second time before she remembers and settles back more firmly on her knees, hands behind the small of her back, clasped like an obedient schoolgirl.   


The Joker bares his teeth when Harley takes him fully down her throat a second time, her nose buried into his pubic bone.  


It's the same sharp grin piranha must wear when they sense fresh blood.   


Afterwards, when he strokes her long legs and bites at the tattoos on her thighs, he tells her exactly what he wants.  


She isn’t afraid. She’s fierce and wild and wicked.  


She’s rotten. 

  


\--

  


There’s a place near the docks that suits their purposes. It’s dark and wet and murky. Little traffic flows through the area, so it’s easy enough to create a perimeter. The Joker keeps the car running, the lights off, with Frost behind the wheel around the corner. There’s a panda-headed henchman on the rooftop toting a semi-automatic and a watchman on guard who’s twirling dual pistols like he’s just stepped off of the set for a Western. They’re barking mad but reliable. When the boss tells them to keep an eye on all the corners and sound the alarm if trouble arrives, they do it.

It’s an easy job considering their main source of trouble is already bound and almost broken. The Batman is officially incapacitated, his handy utility belt unlatched and out of reach, his thick arms tied to an industrial steel chair. It’s the type of steel used for cages and the restrains are braided chord. There’s cuffs around his ankles and a sluggish, heavy serum in his veins.

It wears off gradually. He feels like he’s been struck over the head with an iron fist after a night of drinking. The first thing he smells is the sea and the fish stink of the docks. He can hear the waves crashing and then he can hear Harley Quinn. 

He groans, tries opening his eyes, and knows before he’s succeeded that he’s restrained. 

There’s an unfamiliar weight balanced on top of him. There’s the smell of coconuts and sugar and sour apples. And Harley Quinn again, her voice a sliver of broken glass piercing his brain.

“What’s the matter? Ain’t I pretty enough? Don’t you like blondes? Puddin’, I don’t think he’s wakin’ up…”

“Now, now, give him time… The night’s just begun.” The Joker drawls then brays with laughter somewhere to his left, and it’s a noise that Batman recognizes. 

It hurts to move, to breathe. He forces himself to push past it. He growls, that deep chest rumbling sound, and jerks his head back. Harley traces a finger across his blunt jaw; his stubble there bristles against her skin. Realization dawns on him; he can feel her sitting on his thighs, her deceptively meager weight, and the heat of her. Radioactive, blistering heat. Her cotton-candy strands blur across his peripheral vision when she leans in so they’re cheek to cheek, like dancers or lovers. 

“Didn’t your momma have blonde hair?” She has a snake’s whisper.

Something fierce strikes his dark, brooding eyes. It isn’t fierce enough to hide his anger or his panic. Harley laughs, smoothing a soft hand over the hard leather of his cowl, tweaking one of his fake ears. “Oh, don’t worry, baby. We’re not gonna say a word, are we Mr. J? ‘Cause we like masks… They’re part of the game.”

“Part of the joke,” the Joker elaborates, twisting one of his white hands in the air, fingers twirling like skeletal ballerinas. “And the joke is on you, Batty Boy.”

“What …” His voice, usually so gravelly and stentorian, comes out strangled instead. His mouth feels slow, like his brain. His tongue is heavy. He’s having trouble concentrating. “What did you …”

“Ooooh, shush, shush, shush.” Harley adjusts her weight and a flare of pain runs up his side. He might have a few broken ribs. He can’t even remember a fight or a fall or how he’s here, all tangled up and on the wrong side of the street. “You’re gonna be feelin’ so fine. My honey-bunny wanted to poison you first, but I don’t think any man can perform on a heavy dose of arsenic, you know what I mean? So, we used a lithium-glycyrrhiza-glabra combo instead. We’ve got a personal supply. That’s why your heads so fuzzy and your mouth ain’t workin’ right.”

He has no idea what she’s talking about, but his mind latches onto the word perform. 

He’s puzzling over it at what feels like the rate of a snail’s pace when she kisses him, her bright mouth witch-like beneath the low streetlamps. There’s the brief taste of her acrid lips, and then there’s more darkness. 

 

\--

 

He can feel her heat when he wakes up for the second time. It’s still blistering. He groans because she’s burning him, she’s wildfire, she’s stardust, and he’s going to wither away beneath her. He will be ash and heartache and the guilty memory of his murdered parents, of Jason Todd, of all the ones he couldn’t save. He wants to hide inside the wild beating of his heart, but his lungs are withered and carrying a sharp, invigorating pain to the rest of his body every time he inhales (which he does frequently – he must seem like a dog, foaming at the mouth, panting, teeth white and clenched). It keeps him alert, grounded in the moment. 

Bruce Wayne, the man inside the Batsuit, feels his own sweat like a second layer of skin and he knows. He knows suddenly and terribly because he’s felt this way before, he’s done this with a hundred beautiful women, and then there’s the slow, wet pull of her to solidify the realization:

He’s fucking Harley Quinn. 

Or, rather, she’s fucking him. She’s riding him like she’s the cowboy and he’s the bull. 

She slams her hips down, rocking, and he feels his body lurch beneath her, struggling with the restraints. He isn’t trying to escape. He’s trying to meet her, her movements haphazard and without rhythm. It’s intentional, he knows, because she’s keeping him on edge – not letting him adjust – because she wants, she wants, she wants. 

This isn’t about him.

Or it is, but it’s more about what she can bring out of him. 

It’s more about the show. 

 

\--

 

He’s splitting her open. Bats has a fat cock, fatter than what she’s used to, and she’s half in love with the burn-rip of her body adjusting to him. She’s wet enough, but she doesn’t remember sex being like this; she can feel his muscles tensing beneath his suit, she can smell leather, she can hear the Joker’s breathing behind her and feel the weight of his eyes, but she can’t seem to focus on much more than what’s the strangest element here – there’s something familiar about the Batman. 

It’s in the way he fills her, the snarl-twist of his mouth, the unfocused fury in his gaze. She reaches a hand behind his neck and grips, rolling her hips in double time as she lowers herself on him. Harley knows this is a once in a lifetime moment, so she’s enjoying it, but she thinks she’s only really liking it because of the familiarity she feels. The thing is, it’s not too different from fucking the Joker. 

Except there’s a whole lot of hate between them and no love lost. 

Once she gets him to beg that hate will only multiply. Because that’s really what Harley wants. She wants him to feel her as she comes, and she wants to keep fucking him, keep bringing him to the boiling point and then letting him simmer. She wants to see his jaw clench and hear his ragged voice as he struggles with his pronunciation and how to form the word _please_. 

He’s been reduced to a growling, groaning mess between her straddling legs, and that might be partially on account of the drugs, but she’s willing to bet it’s more because of the way her cunt grips him and how she licks at the sweat on his jaw and sucks his bottom lip into her mouth. 

He bites her. 

She bites back, gasp-laughing when one of his arms almost breaks free from the restraints, his gloved fingers threatening to choke. 

It’s that hate in him that makes him violent, that makes him want to wrap his hands around her slender throat and squeeze, but it’s also his guilt. Because he loves it, she can tell, loves how she’s arching her back into a beautiful curve, loves the feel of her cunt, loves her hair that’s stuck to his wet mouth as she braces herself above him. 

And isn’t that what they wanted? 

To make him feel love? 

 

\--

 

She’s drawing him nearer and nearer to the only death he has ever known.

Harley is dimly aware of the low glow of the streetlights, the hum of the nearby car’s idling engine, and the cry of sea birds overhead. They pass fleetingly over her senses. 

Her skin is rubbed raw and she’s sticky with sensitivity between her thighs. There’s sweat on her arms, down her spine, across her sharp, delicate collarbones. Her breath catches in her throat; she leans back, hoping to alleviate some of the burn in her legs, and finds that the new position makes it so that she can fuck him deeper and faster, her clit catching over his cock on every downward impact and making her shiver. 

_Please._

The word shatters her focus. 

She catches a fist of his cowl, the way a man might grab a woman’s hair, and pulls until Batman’s neck is tight with tension. There’s a thick vein pulsing there. On a different night, she might have sliced a knife across this most vulnerable of places. Tonight, she presses her mouth to it instead. She wants to feel the shape of his surrender against her lips, wants to feel his throat vibrate with aching lust. 

_Please_ , he spits out, half-need and half-disgust. 

Harley cranes her head back, her blonde hair framing her flushed face, and finds the Joker’s vicious eyes in the nearby darkness. 

The Joker’s been watching, and he doesn’t ask if his mad little bitch is enjoying herself; he doesn’t need to. He isn’t the one inside of her, he isn’t biting bruises into her breasts or licking her too-pale skin, but he’s still aware of the way her pulse dances, of her elevated body temperature, of the tightening of her thigh muscles. She knows he knows when a wicked grin splits his red mouth. 

It’s the grin that is his acquiescence. 

Harley kisses the Batman, and it’s a kiss that reaches Bruce Wayne. She kisses with soft lips and a wet tongue, all of her body pressed against his strong chest, one hand clawing over the spot above his heart, the other gripping his broad shoulder. Her hips are still rocking, she can feel his cock thicken and pulse inside of her, but she knows it isn’t her cunt that finally sends him over the edge or just how well she’s been fucking him. 

It’s the kiss. 

 

\--

 

They leave the Bat, half-chained and breathless with exhaustion and guilt, but not before using the utility belt to send out an emergency signal. (A more ignorant person would deem this an act of kindness on their part, but the Joker will spend the next month laughing over the image of Batman’s rescue in his mind’s eye. He’ll get hard thinking about the shame and guilt that must have tumbled Gotham’s heroic knight.)

Frost drives, slow and steady through Gotham’s streets, the less conspicuous town car making their arrival back into the heart of the city practically invisible. There’s a high-rise loft waiting for them and a bed Harley can’t stop thinking about. She’s sweaty, tired, her diamond-patterned dress disheveled, but oddly contented. She has her head on the Joker’s shoulder, and he strokes her hair, the back of her neck, the curve of one ear, till she’s lulled into a half-sleep. He calls her a _good girl_ and Harley thinks about arm restraints and the smell of leather. 

Her mouth presses into his arm. “Didn’t I tell ya?” She asks, peering up at him, her eye makeup smudged so that she looks like a ruined Mona Lisa with a cryptic leer. 

“Hmm?” 

“Even the Batman can use some love.” Her smile is the smile of a thief slipping into the night. She bites her swollen bottom lip and a giggle stutters its way out of her throat. 

It’s the sound of a new game beginning.


End file.
